House of All Nations (8 page)

* Baltic: Mercantile and Shipping Exchange, London.

‘I wouldn't mind being your partner if there were two of me.'

Léon took this as a great compliment. ‘You're great, Margaret. Well, let's go somewhere. Say, say, look at that girl. What a beauty! Fancy her sitting there like that waiting for men: isn't it a shame. I'll tell you what, Margaret, Marianne: let's ask her to go with us? Yes. Look at her, poor girl. A beauty too. What do you say?'

He looked eagerly at them.

‘I'm a sport, Henri,' said Marianne, ‘but Aristide and I are rather well known in Paris, and doubtless this woman is, too. What will be thought of us: Aristide's clients may—no, certainly will see him in the Scheherazade—you can't take a woman like that with you to the Scheherazade where everyone who counts in Paris may see us.'

Léon looked crestfallen, but his eyebrows rising took in Marianne's dowdy black evening dress and sequin-scaled jacket, her badly curled hair, her thick rouge. The handsome woman waiting for men on one of the padded seats had caught his eye by this time and knew he was discussing her: she looked the two women over with superb insolence, and they crumbled and fell to dust at her glance, while she continued to glitter and even grew in beauty like a sea gull letting fall sea drops from wings shaken by sun and wind. Léon dismissed Marianne with an unconscious but careless curl of the lips and nose and turned abruptly to Margaret, took her arm in a brotherly fashion.

‘Margaret, come on: we'll all go along and have a good time.'

Margaret was recovering from her astonishment enough to look down her nose. This disgusted Léon. He snapped his fingers, smiled at the woman, cried, ‘Madame.' He said with a sudden malicious inspiration, half intoxicated and half in anger, ‘Margaret, why didn't I notice it before? This is Mme.—I forget the name—this is the intimate friend of a friend of mine, a grain merchant: why you know, Achitophelous, Marianne, why this is an old friend of his, poor woman: she had a bad time. He isn't a nice fellow to his women. Poor girl. Imagine her waiting for men in this café. Madame … '

He had left them and energetically gained her side. With mocking and brilliant looks she was splendidly flirting with him and sneering at the others. Aristide had pushed a heavy and irritated look towards her, taken her in and now sat with his head bowed over the table, until he had the presence of mind to say, ‘Marianne, Mrs. Weyman, we need not stay: if you like—'

Mrs. Weyman dryly replied, ‘I think I will stay. If this is really a friend of Mr. Léon, how can we leave him? He is our host. Wouldn't we look rather ridiculous, suddenly getting up and scuttling? Let's wait. He's only doing it to annoy us … '

‘Is he?' asked Aristide sardonically. ‘I hope so. Let us wait and see.'

But now Léon came towards them, leading the dark-browed houri by the hand. She was dressed in black, low necked with silver fox furs. An exceedingly smart hat with evening veil set off the black brilliants which were her eyes. Her hair appeared to be done by Antoine: she had platinum and diamond bracelets and silver and ebony bracelets on her arms. She was so much better dressed than either of them and so much grander, silkier, and stranger in manner, like polished ebony, that they were at a loss. She seated herself and Léon said, ‘This is the friend of my old friend Achitophelous, Mme. Verneuil.'

The women, like two clucking schoolgirls, bowed and felt dowdy. As if forcing them against a background by sketching her own personality in more brilliantly, the alleged Mme. Verneuil lit an opium cigarette, after offering one to each of the other women, showed off her carmine nails and diamonds, and said in a saccharine coo, ‘And what shall we do, Mr. Léon?'

Léon looked round, said, ‘Let's get another friend: let's see if we can see another of my friends. There, on the
terrasse
.'

Mme. Verneuil gave a faint start, but came quivering back to the leash, like a black greyhound. ‘You have some more friends here, then, Monsieur?' She laughed.

‘I am looking for more friends. I want all my friends. Eh, Margaret, don't you want to meet all my friends? I know Paris so well. All my friends have friends in Paris. Let's take them all out. Poor girls. Such beauties. Such houris. It is practically paradise. You do not mind, dear Madame? Are there any of your friends, here?'

‘No,' said the black-browed Parisienne, slowly, ‘none of my friends is here. I do not think, in fact, I have any friends living or dead, except you tonight, Mr. Léon.'

Léon frowned at her for a moment, but she only responded with a salon smile. He sawed the air with his hand. ‘Waiter,
hé
: bring some more wine.' The waiter looked faintly pained but hurried away. The headwaiter advanced with a real smile and saw to the nesting of the bottle himself.

‘I can sing,' said Léon. ‘In the Seven Mountains, where I was born, everyone can sing. But not here. Do you believe I can sing?' he said turning suddenly to Margaret and quenching the light in the houri's eyes.

‘I should like to hear you again.'

‘You will, you will: but I must have all my friends. I don't like this female exclusive game—do you, Aristide? Listen, Marianne: Aristide will have four girls and I will have four. We will take out ten girls and two men. That is a dozen. I feel like a dozen, or even a baker's dozen, tonight. It was remembering the one hundred and twenty-five thousand guilders I made in the General Strike. Ah, Margaret, I was walking down the street this afternoon: I looked in the gutter and saw an empty purse. Think of it, I said to myself. It is a month since I was in love; since I felt in love. That's a terrible feeling, Margaret. Do you know what I mean? I need romance. Let me have romance tonight. Be nice to me. Bear with me.' He begged so nicely of them that they all softened and even Aristide left off toying with a coffee spoon and his foggy eyes smiled for a moment, or at least lightened faintly. The women even settled themselves more easily and accepted each other.

‘Love is usually a caricature and a bad joke,' said Aristide.

‘I have gypsy blood,' said Léon: ‘I went to the White Rabbi in—my home—last year, and he said to me, “Olim (my name), you're a wicked man, but your star is lucky. You are rich and you will go on getting richer.” It is my gypsy blood: it is with me. There is a rose in my blood: wherever I go, stones glittering underneath my shoes. Did I ever tell you my first experiment in agriculture? No. My father died. My poor mother lived by herself with four children. One day my uncle came and drove his cows into our yard. After that we sowed cucumbers. We always sowed cucumbers. We make wonderful pickles,' he beseeched Madame Verneuil who was bored but pretended to devour him with interest. ‘Pickled cucumbers, what do you call them? When the cucumbers came up, the whole yard was covered with cucumbers: you couldn't walk without mashing them. I never saw so many. Good, we thought: the yard is good for cucumbers. But next year there were no cows; when we sowed, there were only two or three stringy things. My first lesson in agriculture, you see. At first I thought it was perhaps our gypsy blood, luck. My grandmother—' he stopped abruptly. ‘Waiter: Aristide! See that girl over there! Aristide: go and get her. It's a friend of mine. I met her—in the Westminster Hotel. She is a very fine lady. She was worth—millions.' His eyes danced. ‘Millions of—pesetas: her husband was a Spaniard. Now look at her. Isn't it sad? We'll all have a good time. We'll drink the wine and then we'll go to the Scheherazade.'

Aristide sat up and said, ‘I really think we have enough company, Léon. The Scheherazade is really very small and the company is small; you can't take a big party there unless you arrange—'

‘Nonsense. You're afraid: don't be afraid, my boy. Go and get the girl. She's a dear old friend of Mr. Rhys of Rotterdam. When the Spanish husband died, Rhys was very kind to her. Poor girl. Do me a favor, Aristide, and go and ask her.'

‘What is your friend's name?' said Aristide sternly.

‘Ask her! She's probably married now. You don't want to offend the ladies—wrong names? You can make mistakes, eh, Marianne?'

The two women who had started the evening with a good lead were perspiring with embarrassment, irritation, and doubt. No one could believe Léon's tales but here he was chattering in a sort of French with the Mme. Verneuil and there was no telling that he did not really know her. Besides, the Scheherazade was a first-class cabaret and they rarely had an opportunity to go to it. Marianne decided to hold out for the sake of the champagne which they would presently get.

Léon cried, ‘And afterwards we'll go to Mitchell's on the Rue Pigalle and have bacon and eggs, four o'clock in the morning. First to the Brasserie Moulin Rouge, then to Mitchell's: first an omelet, then a raft of eggs. Good, eh? But first we'll have some fun. How are you, Madame? What is your married name now? This is Madame Verneuil.'

‘I am Mme. Saintspères, then,' said the girl throatily. She was a strange-looking woman, neither young nor old, or both; her bugle eyes popped as in childhood or senility; they were large, blue, and exorbitant. Her pink skin was deeply flushed and it might have been fever or natural complexion. The mouth was formless, the teeth white and protruding. She laughed gawkily, showing the teeth, and yet she showed no embarrassment or fear in the presence of the splendid Mme. Verneuil. Her dress was bizarre to Continental eyes and took after the American or English unsophisticated adolescent pattern, a cut between Kate Greenaway and a Burne-Jones heroine. They had all seen her round Paris for years and marveled at her persistence in living a life for which they were convinced she had no talent. And here she sat in the Café de la Paix. She took her seat next to Margaret with composure.

Another girl, seeing the gathering, came nearer with hesitation. Léon looked her over, recklessly beckoned her. The other women of her profession now began to understand what Léon was doing. A good and kind man in his personal relations, his drunkenness was bringing to sudden flower some secret malices and acute perceptions of personality which in his sole passion for money and his merchandising even of love had been dried up, like peas of Pompeii, perhaps, which can still flower after centuries of being buried.

This new woman was also well known to all frequenters of Paris cafés. Some said she was Russian, some, German. She was tall, ugly, plump, dark, and heavily marked with sadness and poor living, but well built and with a great pride in her manner as tall Russian women often have. She had on a round cap which did not suit her heavy square-built features, a poor black dress which muddied her spoiled olive complexion, black gloves, large feet in low-heeled shoes. She approached with dignity, as if she was meeting the acquaintances of some close friends of hers. Her stone-cut face smiled. She sat down and began settling herself as if richly dressed. The other women feared her for her great poise. Although poor, strange, and ugly, she had many lovers and although she would whore for a piece of bread or to pay her rent, she had lovers for long intervals. Some said she was formerly the Baroness So-and-so of Vienna and her history indicated that she had some secret attraction of history or station, above her present looks. Léon, however, when she came near perceived that she was not the type to amuse him vastly, although he murmured, leaning back and eying her fast, ‘What a woman! Magnificent, eh? Look at her?'

Aristide looked at her with immense distaste. Léon noticed this and began to laugh. ‘Well, Aristide, speak up! See if you can't see any friends here. Haven't you any friends? Why, you live in Paris; and look at me, in ten minutes, look at all the old friends I see here! This is Mme. Verneuil, this is Mme. Saintspères, and what is now your married name, Madame?'

The noble ogress shook all her teeth in a wide laugh and said sweetly, ‘Anna, that's all; never mind the Madame. I am your old friend Anna. Don't you remember I never had any other name?'

He looked at her vividly, appraising her great proportions, startled. The meeting had now become interesting for all the women, who for the first time, no doubt, had an opportunity of measuring each other's talents and learning the method and attractions of the others. The waiter had begun to smile, relishing this treat offered to all the hungry women who had been waiting round the café; for although they belonged to a world to which his wife, sister and daughter did not, and although he found them parasitic, the waiter at least liked to see money spent on other than these plump and self-satisfied married women. Léon took a drink of wine.

‘Here are we making whoopee and the Red Army is fighting for civilization in China,' he said sadly, shaking his head.

The dark-browed Parisienne bridled at this, blew smoke from her cigarette. She had turned her back towards the whore who sat next to her.

‘I would spill my last drop of blood against the damned Reds,' said she. ‘There is civilization, the family, honor, self-respect over here. What must it be like over there? I pity the women when those bandits pass over.'

Léon laughed. ‘You are a great fighting woman!' He broke off, and looked serious. An improper idea had occurred to him and he was a decent man: he disliked obscenity. He shook his head and looked round. ‘Lady, lady! Come over here. There is a friend of mine,' he announced shamelessly to them, ‘what a woman! Why, I met her when Kratz and I were over last March.' He frowned. Kratz had played a lot of dirty tricks since then.

They were presently twelve sitting at the table. Then the ogress said, ‘Now, we are sufficiently fabulous, Monsieur: let us go somewhere else.'

‘The bill!'

One of the girls began cadging for cigarettes. Another took her place by Aristide's side and began coaxing him to come in ‘their' taxi. The two women who had begun the evening with Léon, Marianne and Margaret, now stood huddled aside, ruffled and astonished, trying to look dignified.